XLIX

A POOR torn heart, a tattered heart,

That sat it down to rest,

Nor noticed that the ebbing day

Flowed silver to the west,

Nor noticed night did soft descend

Nor constellation burn,

Intent upon the vision

Of latitudes unknown.

The angels, happening that way,

This dusty heart espied;

Tenderly took it up from toil

And carried it to God.

There,—sandals for the barefoot;

There,—gathered from the gales,

Do the blue havens by the hand

Lead the wandering sails.